


Any Drink You Can Drink (I Can Drink More Of)

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [12]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking Contest, Gigolas Week 2, Humour, Longing, M/M, Stupid drinking games, but also angst, but hey they just saved the world, drunk!gimli, hobbits can drink more than you'd think, naive legolas, warning for irresponsible alcohol consumption, weird elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minas Tirith, in the days (months?) between the end of the War and the Wedding. Someone had to suggest a drinking game. </p><p> </p><p>(Part of this story appeared in Teitho Challenge Alphabet)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Drink You Can Drink (I Can Drink More Of)

“A game!”

“Yes, a drinking game!”

Those two hobbits are trouble, I am convinced.

They have no sense, no little voice inside them that warns them of rash decisions, no reason that overcomes their impulses.

Legolas, you sound like Ada. Stop it. They are young, innocent, happy. Their cousin is alive, returned to them beyond hope, the world, it seems, is saved, and all is well.

I daresay they have hobbit-lasses waiting for them at home.

I daresay they have hopes of love returned, of – of marriage, little hobbits, whatever it is that makes hobbits happy. Fathers and families who will be pleased to see them.

Food.

Legolas, stop it. Do not be bitter.

It does not suit you.

You do not know what you want, what it is you desire, so – stop ill-wishing others.

“A drinking game?” I ask, “What sort of drinking game?”

As ever, he looks at me as though I am a fool, and I feel my poor ears flush once again, but I am not a fool, it is not so silly a question.

Merry and Pippin look at each other as he speaks again,

“There is only one type of drinking game worthy of warriors – last one standing. And that will be me, young hobbits, you cannot out-drink a dwarf.”

I cannot help it, I raise my eyebrow in doubt as I look at the two of them. I have never seen anyone – of any size – eat as much as these two – and while it may be no sure indicator, I cannot help but wonder how their drinking will match up.

“Last one standing?” Merry asks, “that doesn’t sound much fun – what do you do?”

“You drink,” he says, and – that apparently is it. Simplicity itself, I suppose. Everybody drinks, and whoever is last one to pass out, wins.

It does not sound a very fun way to spend the evening.

Although – I suppose it would mean I would not have to watch him leave with yet another – I do not know the word – person he has charmed into his bed.

Person who is not me.

There seems to be an assumption that I will know little of drinking games. Merry and Pippin are busily explaining different rules they have come across – picking up ones drink with a different hand depending on the time of the evening – ‘but we can’t do that here, there are no clocks – and Legolas cannot read a clock anyway’ – having to run round the table before an object can be passed round in the other direction – ‘but that would be too easy for Legolas’ – some strange game called ‘I’ve never’ where you have to list things you have not done, and those who have must drink – and I have no idea why, but that seems to cause much amusement to the hobbits, much remembered embarrassment.

It is, and I suppose it is not surprising, Sam who turns to me and says,

“But what about elves, master Legolas, surely elves have drinking games? Or was old mister Bilbo wrong when he said the elves in your father’s court drank deep?”

Oh, he said that, did he? Well, I suppose he would. 

I smile.

“Yes, we drink. And we play games in drinking. I do not think the games we play of arrow-shots would work among this company, nor our knife throwing and dancing. But – do you never play singing games? We often use songs or poetry as competition – who can remember them, or finish a line, or somesuch.” They all look at me as though I am out of my wits.

“A game, we said,” Pippin is the one to voice their thoughts, “that sounds like – like school. The poetry I mean. The knives sounds – dangerous. Foolish.”

“Indeed master Took, it must be foolish for you to think it so – or at least it would be for those who are not elves,” Gandalf is laughing, “but I think that for myself, such days are past, and for the ringbearer – not yet returned. Sam, I leave it to you to decide, but take a care for your own health.” He does not say any more, but escorts Frodo away, and after a moment’s deliberation, Sam follows. Reluctantly I think, but loyal as ever.

“It is not like – like schooling,” I say, continuing the discussion for Pippin is still looking at me, “it is the sort of game elves enjoy.” I hear a dismissive snort from the dwarf, and I again feel my ears flush, but I press on, speaking only to Pippin, “did you never play such games? Alphabet games? ‘I love my love with a T’ – oh, what would it be – an A in your speech?”

They snigger, and I am at a loss for why, but Merry says,

“Only you could play that line, Strider, I think, and – Legolas – how many loves do you have to work through the entire alphabet?”

“I think only Gimli of us all could manage that,” Pippin is the one to say it, and they all laugh.

“It is just a game,” I say, quietly, looking down at my fingers, aching again, wondering whether I will ever be able to play it again without thinking of him, without wishing for the letter that starts his name, without longing to say all I wish to him, about him, and knowing I forever must not, cannot, because – because I do not have the words – and he does not wish to hear.

For whatever reason, it is Aragorn who comes to my aid, and suggests a different alphabet game – as they play in Rivendell, apparently.

“Each person in turn must say the next sentence of the story – make it up – but it must start with the right letter. And for every word that begins with that letter, everyone else has to drink.”

I wonder if my Westron is up to this, but I will try – I look at the drink we are playing with, and I think I am probably safe from becoming too drunk, for it is only ordinary wine. I do wonder how it compares with the ale he normally drinks – but I find I do not care. I would rather enjoy seeing him drunk. He was drunk once before, he walked in on my combing – and – and I liked it. But then – then I did not know what I wanted – I still do not know – but now, now I have the courage – I think I might have the courage – to ask.

Anyway.

The game is to begin. 

“I will speak first,” Aragorn says, “for I have played before – I know how it is done – it will show the rest of you what to do.”

I am dubious – that sounds suspicious to me, and I wonder if Aragorn plays to win. However, no-one else it seems shares my doubts – so off we go.

 _Aragorn accidentally annoyed Asfaloth._ I suppose it is only fair that he should use his own name. Four fingers of drink for each of us. Pippin is to speak next, and shows a surprising talent;

_“Bother,” bellowed the Balrog-slayer, “my bells are all bent.”_

_“Confound that creeping mortal,” he cursed._ And I wonder if Merry really thinks we speak like that, if they all assume that is how elves are.

 _“Does that Dunedain dare to defy my wrath?”_ Four. I had not expected a dwarf to have any talent at a word game.

 _Elrond enigmatically elongated his eyebrow, and economically indicated the miscreant._ Respectable, I think, even if I have not managed to outdo Pippin.

 _“Fly, you fool!”_ Aragorn must be tired. Or, I suppose, suffering from drink already.

 _Gandalf cried to the guilt-struck, as Glorfindel gleefully got sight of his prey._ Pippin really is quite good at this. Merry seems to be struggling with laughter as he says;

_“Hasten from here and hide from him.”_

_Indeed, the man ignobly fled._ Two. That is a more dwarvish score.

 _Jumping over a giant jasmine bush, he jerked away, his legs turning to jelly._ Only four. Legolas, concentrate. Giant does not begin with j. It should do, I think, but apparently not. I will never understand the rules of spelling words in this tongue.

 _Landing next to a lethargic Legolas, the leaper let out a plea for help._ Five – well, I suppose it is Aragorn’s game. He is definitely slurring the words already though – Men – and they think themselves so strong.

 _“Mellon-nin, mislead my pursuer,” he mithered._ Pippin really is showing more intelligence than I had ever suspected, although I am not sure using an obscure hobbit word is fair – but Merry agrees, it is truly a word in the north of the Shire – and – I do not care, Aragorn is rapidly becoming beyond the point where he will be able to protest – and – and he is – still claiming no dwarf can be outdrunk by a hobbit. And why does something in his tone send a thrill through me? His bluster, his confidence. What it is to be a beloved son, I think again.

 _“Nay,” the notorious Noldor roared, “I never give up.”_ Merry seems to be improving as he drinks, which is odd. But then;

 _“Oh no,” Oropher’s grandson ordered, “on this occasion, you are outwitted.”_ Six. He has scored the highest so far, and Aragorn – Aragorn has laid his head on the table – bested at his own game – but – more importantly – all I can think of – is – Gimli remembered my lineage. I do not know what that means to dwarves – but – surely – it means something? I feel my ears flush, I feel my breath catch – and then – I realise – we are friends. That is all. Dwarves may be like hobbits, ones to remember all family ties of any they meet. 

Something in me drops, and I feel – heavy. They are looking at me, and I know it is my turn to speak, but – I care not. None of it matters. I do not even know what I long for, I do not know, and I do not know how to ask. I push my hand through my hair, look at me, I think, look at me, please, I do not know how to be more obvious, even after all this wine, I do not know, I only know I want something from you, and it hurts that you do not see it, do not see me – but I must speak.

 _Perhaps._ Is the only word I can manage, and I know myself ridiculous to be so flustered, I know I should be calm, be elven, be contained – but I am not, I am not – I want something from him – I want him to care for me – I want him to – to touch my hair. 

I have drunk too much, I fear.

 _Quenya has not quite the words to express the quixotic loss of such a quarry as was quavering with fear so close._ I cannot believe Pippin. I look at Merry, and he grins, “he spends too much time drinking,” he says, “drinking and riddling – this is close enough.” I smile, and as he begins his dwarvish protests of our lack of concentration – it is a game, I want to say, just a game – there is nothing hanging on this – Merry comes up with the line;

 _Ruing his folly, Aragorn ran once more, racing for the shelter of the trees._ It scores only three, but it sets Gimli up nicely for a five;

 _“Save me,” he sniffled, forgetting his Silvan, “as my Sindar protector has said.”_ And that is the end of Merry. He looks at Aragorn, and giggles, the idea of him sniffling seems to be enough to make him lose all sense. He is gone. But I – once again, I am – I can feel it – flushing at the ears, swallowing, needing to touch my hair – he remembers my race, my language, oh please, please – I do not know what to do – but I must play the game, so,

 _Threateningly the trees turned their trunks to touch one another, closing the path._ Nine, apparently – I had forgot that th and t are the same letter in this tongue – and even as I speak, I wonder how trees could turn their trunks – 

_Under their uplifted boughs, the man relaxed at last._ Pippin is tired now too – the drink seems to catch up with hobbits quickly. Gimli speaks, clearer than I would have thought,

 _“Visions of veiled futures and vengeance are not for me,” he ventured._ And the score of four has Pippin done. I look to see if this is enough, can we stop, but no, he glares at me to continue, so,

 _Whereupon he woke in his wonted place of rest, and was weak with relief that it was but a dream._ Not a good seven, but it is still seven. And it leaves him with X. I do not know many Westron words that begin with X. 

_Xanadu could not have been more paradisiacal._ I have no idea what he means – I am tempted to ask, but – what matters it?

 _Yet from far below he heard a mighty yell._ Two. Pathetic. But – I do not care. He is laughing, not quite completely drunk, yet nearer than I have before seen him,

 _“’Zounds, this zoo of mortals have painted my Asfaloth in stripes,” the zebra-owning Glorfindel swore._ Aie, he makes words up – that is not fair. But – I do not care, he is laughing so. He claps me on the shoulder,

“That was a good game, elf,” he says, and looks around at the other three, “I suppose by rights we should go on – but – I can’t be bothered.”

I smile, and then he downs the rest of his drink,

“I am for bed,” he says, and sighs, “and I suppose I will have to sleep alone – I have missed any opportunity there may have been tonight, playing this silly game.”

Good, I think. And then – take me to your bed. But I do not know how to say it. I – I do not even know what I would be asking for. I take a breath – looking for courage, and why – why is this – why is love so much more frightening than any battle?

“I am here,” I say, “I – I will come with you to our room,” for friends as we are, we still share a room even as the hobbits do, when he is not – elsewhere. I do not mean only that, but – I do not have the words – not in any tongue – for what it is I want – I do not even know – I look at him, but – he is drunk.

He laughs.

“Daft sodding elf,” he says, “that's not what I meant,” and before I can even try to find the words to say I know, and – and teach me, please – he sighs, and yawns, and, “come on, then, master elf. Bedtime it is. And better luck tomorrow I suppose.”

He does not want me. 

He does not see how I feel, how I long for him.

He would have me be only a friend.

So instead of falling into his embrace, as I long to do, instead of the – the touches, kisses – I have seen him exchange with so many others, I smile silently, enigmatic as an elf can be, and we rise, leaving the others to sleep it off here.

Ah, now that is interesting.

Apparently all the alcohol his body has been resisting goes to his head when he stands. He staggers a little, and – for a moment I think he is too proud, he will fall, but no. He lets me put my arm round him – and – and for me it is almost as when he held me at the end of battle, as he puts his arm round me also. But only for balance.

Like this, we make our way to our room – and I – I wish – I do not know what I wish. I love him, I want to please him, I want him to see me, I want – I want him to touch me, touch my hair.

He is drunk, and he sees me not.

He sings – I do not know – some scurrilous song he seems to have learnt from Eomer. I daresay it is supposed to be funny.

It is not. 

Unless one is very drunk.

I do not care.

His arm is round me, he will sleep in the same room as me tonight, I will watch over him, sing to him as he sleeps – perhaps even comb next to him.

It is not what I long for – he cares little – he will not watch me, will not see my hair, will not touch me – but – it is at least one night he will not spend with another, leaving me alone.

I open the door for him – I help him to the bed – I even – he seems to want me to – help him take off some of his mail. I feel my ears flush desperately, wanting – oh I do not know – I want so to – to be close to him. He pats my back,

“You’re a good frien’, Legsh,” he says, and I – I do not take offence at the mangling of my name, I simply smile, and he goes on, “a ver’ ver’ goo’ frien’.” 

“You are drunk, master dwarf,” I manage, clinging to my good sense, drunk also, but not quite drunk enough.

“Yesh, yesh, I am,” he says, and then, as he collapses on the bed, “fuckssssake, courshe I’m bloody drunk. Bloody shtupid elf gamesh,” he blinks a moment, “but you are. Beshtesht frien’.”

“I think you had best sleep it off,” I say, trying to pull away, I cannot do this, I cannot be so close and yet – not, “and in the morning – we will call it a draw – and – and you will have forgotten this.”

“Beshtesht frien’,” he says again, and then takes my hand, and will not let go, peering up at me solemnly, “’n I’m your frien’?” he frowns, thinking, then, “But – Legsh – you got elf-frien’? Better’n’me?”

Oh Gimli, I think, oh Gimli, you have no idea. 

I smile again, trying to keep my countenance under control, and I shake my head, 

“No, indeed,” I manage, “no better friend than you after all our shared dangers.”

I try to pull my hand away, but he grips it tight – and I – I cannot. He is so strong. I wonder – what would it be to be held – not like this – but – but more – by him?

“Beshtesht frien’,” he says it a third time, three times for truth I was taught when I was small, and then, “Daft shodding elf, but I really love you.”

For a moment – one moment – I cannot breathe – I feel – I do not know – I am alight – I think – I think all is golden – I think – I want – I love him so – and I – I hold his hand, I do not know what to do. 

Then I see he is asleep.

It means nothing.

He meant nothing by any of it.

Just the drink talking.

I swallow hard, I will not weep, I will not sit and weep, here at his side.

After all, friends – friends is good.

Very, very gently, I lean down and kiss his forehead.

He smiles in his sleep, and mumbles something. But – it is not clear – it could be anything. 

Very quietly, I say, 

“Gi melin, Gimli, gi melin,” and I sit, close, all night.

If this is all I can have – I will take it, and be grateful. 

But I wish he would see me.

**Author's Note:**

> Mither - a word meaning to make an unnecessary fuss (Northern)
> 
> Q - quixotic - a reference to a story, well-known in the Shire, of a certain Man who behaved irrationally and extravagantly in pursuit of his ideals. (apparently the story is known to other races also since there are no complaints)
> 
> X - Xanadu - is of course, a mythical ancient city of a dwarvish conqueror King. There is a long and epic poem about it - or there would be, had the writer not been interrupted by a persistent hobbit from Porlock.....
> 
> Z - Zounds - a little used archaic dwarvish swear-word, corruption of "Durin's wounds".  
> \- zoo - a word used for the collection of animals held Ruler of Khand (which only well-travelled dwarves or men would have heard used)  
> \- zebra - an exotic beast, in appearance like a striped horse, from Khand (again, only well-travelled dwarves or men would have heard of this)
> 
> Gi melin - of course, Sindarin, "I love you"


End file.
